Nothing but crash-ban g, varied now and then by bang-crash; all the women dressed within an inch of their lives; smothering heat, blazing gas, and no room for anybody--yes, yes, Thomas; grand's the word for it, and comfortable isn't." With that expression of opinion, Mr.Vanstone whistled to his vixenish terrier; flourished his stick at the hall door in cheerful defiance of the rain; and set off through wind and weather for his morning walk.
The hands, stealing their steady way round the dial of the clock, pointed to ten minutes to nine.

Another member of the family appeared on the stairs--Miss Garth, the governess.
No observant eyes could have surveyed Miss Garth without seeing at once that she was a north-countrywoman.

Her hard featured face; her masculine readiness and decision of movement; her obstinate honesty of look and manner, all proclaimed her border birth and border training.

Though little more than forty years of age, her hair was quite gray; and she wore over it the plain cap of an old woman.

Neither hair nor head-dress was out of harmony with her face--it looked older than her years: the hard handwriting of trouble had scored it heavily at some past time.
The self-possession of her progress downstairs, and the air of habitual authority with which she looked about her, spoke well for her position in Mr.Vanstone's family.